


Shadow of a Doubt

by aseariel



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, mostly Percy but the twins are mentioned, post Those Who Walk Away... (episode 45)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:43:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aseariel/pseuds/aseariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this around episode 45 (Those Who Walk Away…), but didn't have anywhere particular to post it, and so I never did. Given some of the revelations from episode 57 (Duskmeadow), it seems relevant again. Credit for the title goes to K, you know who you are (you smug bastard). Spoilers from up through episode 45, so be forewarned.</p>
<p>Just some introspection from the resident gunslinger. A few bits of dialogue were pulled directly from the show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow of a Doubt

_“An evening of unbridled guilt.”_

_As if there would only be one._

Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III groaned, running a hand over his face. It was late. …Probably. Perhaps late enough to be early? He sat up, uncertain how long he had lain half-awake in the dark even as his aching body protested the semblance-of-sleep’s departure. Rest was elusive at times.

_Should be used to things being just out of reach by now, mm?_

He sighed softly, waving a hand as if to dismiss the thought before groping through the darkness for a candle.

_“Never forget that you’re my favorite”? Really? Is that and a fancy arrow supposed to make up for-_

Matchlight flared to life, and Percy blinked owlishly at the sudden brightness before transferring the small flame to a lantern wick. He watched it catch, watched the match burn down almost to his fingertips before shaking it out. Once the glass door was closed, the lantern cast strange, blurry sections of shadow and light dancing across the walls and over the contents of his room.

He had expected more change with Orthax gone. More relief, perhaps, more ease. Things were better, of course, far better, but even so…

“Well. What's done cannot be undone,” Percy murmured. He rubbed idly at his jaw, stubble prickling beneath his fingers, and grimaced. He had hoped, a little, that some of the things he said - did - were not

_Your fault?_ One thought interrupted another.

He rose, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles, and ignored his body’s other complaints as he crossed the room to a small washbasin. Dipping his hands into the cool water, he watched the light scatter across the surface for a moment before bending over and splashing his face.

_“Your soul is forfeit.”_

He wondered if he was quoting himself, quoting Key’leth quoting himself, or simply making an observation. He wasn't entirely certain the difference was more than purely academic.

_Well, now. That's just being dramatic._

Percy snorted, picking up a small towel and drying his face. “Fair enough, I suppose.” He regarded himself in the mirror as best he could without his glasses.

It offered no answers. He hadn't really expected it to; blurry reflections on bits of silver-backed glass were rarely known for their keen personal insights.

_You could say your reflections lack clarity._

He cracked a wry grin at himself, knowing that sleep would not come easily in spite of the darkness beneath his eyes. He had often forsaken sleep to work; it was not so surprising that sleep would occasionally forsake him back.

Well. At least there was always the workshop.

He dressed mechanically, slipping out of his room with no more sound than a slight scraping of soft leather soles on the stone floor. He spared a glance for the door across and slightly to the left from his, pausing at the sight of a huddled figure in the dark.

It shifted, gave the soft, incoherent complaint of one dreaming, and Percy recognized Vax’ildan. He appeared to be asleep, slumped against the door to his sister’s room. Percy’s hand relaxed, and he withdrew his thumb from the hammer of his pistol.

_“I… can't say that.”_

He'd disliked the look that followed: the all-too-familiar anger, the wounded betrayal. He'd been relieved at Vex’ahlia’s reaction to the gift of the arrow and his apology, her easy - almost blasé - forgiveness, though it stung in a way afterwards that mirrored (perhaps surpassed) her brother’s strike for discomfort.

Percy left the sleeping guardian at his post, making his own way down to the basement and the workshop within. He set his lantern on the table and slumped onto a bench, running his hands through his hair.

He closed his eyes briefly, sighed, and glanced around to look for the last place he’d stashed a ream of drafting paper. Pulling out a suitable sheet, he dug around for a pencil with a tolerable edge. Once victorious, he began to sketch.

He worked until sunrise, pausing only to occasionally remove his glasses and rub at his eyes or adjust the lamp wick.

_As if there could only be one._

**Author's Note:**

> Intrusive thoughts have kept me awake for more than one night; I've wondered before if Percy ever goes through the same thing.


End file.
